Ode to a T-Shirt

This tattered t-shirt…

Is a railroad
and the smell
of charcoal-tinged sweat

It’s telling the world
too little: secrets held
close in each thread

- Of long nights
strong embraces
and rainy days

Each little tear sings
and they know when
the seasons change

It fuses with you
because it’s soul,
man, saxophone soul

It jokes and jostles
with your favorite
jeans like old friends

It’s a philosophy,
timeless music, and
your childhood cartoons

It’s raspberry jello
in August and mad
raging sunsets in July

It’s knowing the smell
of a lover and feeling
the touch of a friend

It’s old vinyl, democracy,
wandering in the morning,
and napping in the sun

It’s books, pleasure, pride,
never going gently,
and making lots of love

It’s ineluctable paradise,
art, universal and
Freedom expressed.

It’s one really awesome t-shirt.

As Chance Would Have It

Sometimes I think of night as the enticing
glance of a beautiful girl dressed in black,
careless and alive.

And I remember the angle of stars
like the genuflexion of limbs exchanging
a weary morning.

Senses ajar, dragging ecstasy to the
fragrant scent of her doorstep, actions
ceasing to require control.

Fingers on my back, drawn up in ranks,
like little white feet, lyrical and coarse
in their jesting.

Hands caressing in a carnal fluency
awakening our spirits, and her wrists
filling the bedroom with the bower of aroma.

Hour earlier hands on bedposts as the clock
struck ONE. My breath whispering as it
covered her firm, entrancing flesh.

Minds taking refuge in a glistening-skin
acceptance of shattering, shimmering,
neutron dawn.

“You really are wonderful.”
“Where are we?”

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I decided to post a soundtrack with this one, albeit a one song soundtrack, for those who don't mind a little edge to their music.





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As posted on Wet Poems©, a collaborative collage of those most primitive joys.

This Place

Bicycles careening with glad smiles
to happy cafes and intimate theatres

Old Volvos for ivy-educated hips --
Who sprinkled the penguin dust here?

And the cut flowers drinking in their color
like an after work beer for Sam on Monday

A wine bottle lamp glowing mysteriously
next to a solitary, subtle tulip – a late summer plumb

Everyone like little kids on a Saturday morning
just whistling in overalls and following the wind

All before they’re called to the kitchen of Monday
morning to put on a serious face for the world.

(What could be more serious than being yourself?

I’d like to drop framed photos of Rimbaud
On every doorstep and grill fish with no clothes)

The leaves fall without portent by the pond
and the apples are shiny gold: Imagine it--

Hands on the park bench, flesh on flesh
dropping smiles in the grass – Irretrievable!

I love it like ancient trees. I love it like comets.
Let’s drink tea and pretend the birds are here to stay.